Tuesdays
by tothevision
Summary: Adult Lucy tells a story. Peter/Susan


Tuesdays

They went every Tuesday. The weather never mattered. Year-round they went without fail. Every Tuesday at eleven.

My sister was not a woman of lightheartedness or at least that's what everyone else thought. She was beautiful and kind, but there was a coldness to her that no one could quite place. Her smile never laughed, her cheeks had lost the color of childhood, and her gaze languished as if she were too tired to exhibit signs life the way a person ought to. She was never rude or dismissive, her manners were impeccable, and she often went out of her way to help others. All in all, she was a lovely person, known and envied by many, yet no one could understand it.

I could.

That's because I knew what she was like before. Before it happened that is. I knew who she really was. I remembered. The person seen by the others was nothing like the one I saw. I remembered_ Susan_.

Sadness was mistaken for coldness. Her despair never showed the way one would think, but I could see the drowning soul deep behind "our" blue eyes. I affectionately called them "ours" when we were young because we all shared the same eyes. So how could one take all the credit?

I always liked the little things that we shared since we were all so vastly different in personality. The little connections always came as a comfort to me, that I would always have this sheer, unbreakable bond with my siblings and naught would part us. Not just because we lived in the same home or had the same parents, but we shared interwoven parts of each other both seen and unseen. Four pairs of bright sapphires. It always made me smile.

Henry had brown eyes. Nothing so very interesting as hazel or that fascinating kind of rich mahogany. What a person looks for in eyes is the kind that draws you in because you don't simply see the soul behind them…you _feel_ it. And unfortunately, his were nothing of the sort. Susan once called them "horse's eyes". Average. Just like he was.

But Henry was a nice man. He was pleasant-looking, with a pleasant voice, and a pleasant demeanor. He provided well for his family, listened to his wife, spent time with his daughter, and did all the things a good husband was supposed to do.

Yet I never pitied him after it happened.

Every Tuesday at eleven o'clock, Susan would glide down the stairs after spending a particular few minutes at her vanity table and reached for her coat which hung neatly by the door.

"Bethie!" she would call and her daughter knew exactly what it meant.

My niece would race into the foyer to join her mother and pull on her coat as well. Depending on the day, sometimes it was a lighter coat or none at all. When it rained, they would simply take their bumbershoots and wellies. Snow meant heavy boots, warm wool hats, and mittens.

Only once was there was an afternoon when a blizzard impeded their journey. Susan spent the next week in a spiraling depression, the reason unbeknownst to anyone. Anyone except for the blue eyed ones.

Hand in hand, they would walk down the street conversing lightly and wave to people along the way. The routine was so concrete that the neighbors knew exactly when to expect Susan and little Elizabeth pass their doors.

"There they go again," they would say.

"Goodness, that child has the brightest blue eyes I've seen."

"She gets it from her mother."

The girl would tug at her mother's arm again and again, always hoping to reach their destination faster, for even if they ran, it would not be quick enough for the patience of a six year old.

Susan's ever somber mask would grow deeper and more fragmented as the two of them neared the park. To the point where it was no longer a hidden, stifled despair, but a wide-eyed grief.

As soon as they reached the end of town, they would pass under the wrought-iron gate, padding down a small dirt road, and then there was no holding that girl back anymore. Susan would let go of her hand and she would run free into the field, shouting with delight. Her mother would sigh as her daughter's long golden hair flew around her while she whirled into the open expanse. On a summer afternoon, the green beneath their feet would be so vibrant and beautiful, it didn't feel as though it could exist in this world, but rather that it belonged in another. Susan knew exactly where it belonged.

A forest formed a natural barrier around them, and great, luscious trees littered a small rolling meadow surrounding them on all sides except for the way behind. The small pathway led them through with benches placed here and there, some under the shade of giant oaks and others simply arranged along the way. Just as Susan and Bethie went there every day, they were not alone in their routine. Two older women also found comfort in walking to the same place every day, to sit on the same bench with only the stories to change. It wasn't long before they discovered Susan and her daughter, and proceeded to take an interest.

I wouldn't call what they did "spying" necessarily, for they were elderly ladies, and elderly ladies do not spy on others. All I will say is that they watched after them with a fairly keen interest in their doings.

Passing the women, Susan would look beaten and worn in a way that she did not look six days out of the week, but it only took one moment for it to disappear entirely. In that moment, Susan would come alive again in a way neither her husband, nor her friends would ever witness.

Bethie would shriek again and Susan would turn her head to see her daughter flying up a hill to meet a man at the top. The man stood tall and proud with a grave expression, gazing down across the meadow, his golden mane shone in the sunlight the way it always had and always will.

"Uncle Peter!" she would shout joyously and he would break into a huge smile that threatened to blind the nearest person, scooping up the dear child into his arms and squeezed until she had not a breath in her. Susan was quick to join them and once Peter managed to pry his arms apart to let the little girl go, she would be off like a shot to explore the meadow or climb a nearby tree or find a rabbit hole or pretend she was a Queen in a far-away land filled with magic and splendor…or whatever else it is a young child would find of interest.

Meeting with a deep intensity in their shining blue eyes, my brother would crook a small smile that never failed to make her shiver.

"Hello, Susan."

That was the moment, the moment when Susan changed. Every shadowed corner, every darkened glint vanished, and her face, once drawn and serious, became smooth and reborn, glowing with ageless adoration. Her friends might say she became a new person, but I knew better.

A true smile would light her now youthful looking face, for she appeared to have lost ten years of wear, and they would embrace with a brush of his lips against her now-brazen cheek. It was held longer than most but not enough to be considered anything but proper. He would whisper something into her ear each and every time, to which she would shut her eyes tightly and squeeze him more fiercely.

No one ever knew what it was he said. Not even me. It was meant for them alone.

Releasing each other with great reluctance, for they knew they were always being watched, always seen, Susan would wind her arm in his and they would walk to the blanket Peter had spread out for them, along with a picnic basket, filled with something he made and all three of them would enjoy.

Together they would lie on the blanket for hours, sometimes talking, sometimes in silence. Often, Peter would break away to chase after Bethie for a bout of tig, and Susan would watch with pure contentment in her softened expression as the two of them ran about laughing and shouting. Sometimes all three of them would join to play a game. Hide-and-Seek was a particular favorite.

If there was a world outside that time together, it didn't exist for them.

Only a reddening sky and a chill in the air would steal that place away. Again, Susan would walk hand in hand with her daughter down the streets. Putting their jackets back onto the hook, Susan would linger with a gentle touch of her fingers on the wall.

"Only until next week, Mummy," Bethie would say in her childish innocence, desperately wanting to soothe away her mother's sadness. So Susan would smile without smiling at all and then she would vanish with the day, another person in her place, waiting for the chance to be reawakened once more.

Henry would come home and peck his wife on her colorless cheek and hug his daughter with one arm as he sat down in his armchair after a long day at work.

"Tuesday, eh?" he would remark. "How was the park?"

Bethie would squeal and tell him all about the deer she saw in the woods or the eagle that swooped down and caught a field mouse in its deadly talons. She would eagerly tell him about the food they ate and the games they played, and he would patiently listen to it all. Then when she was finished they would eat a quiet dinner and he would retire to his office while Susan put Bethie to bed. Soon the husband and wife would follow, going to bed without a word. Occasionally, it would be a bit longer before they went to sleep, but on those nights Susan always feigned exhaustion. Yet she would lie awake long after her husband fell asleep.

Henry never noticed.

Early on a cold Wednesday morning, Edmund came up the steps to my door as I waited for him. I knew what he was going to say before he could open his mouth. I don't know how I knew. I suppose I had expected it for a long time now. The news didn't faze nor grieve me. As a matter of fact, it was met with a striking sense of relief. A burden I didn't even realize I carried was freed from my heart.

Susan and Bethie had disappeared. They never returned from their weekly park visit. All of their things were still at home, untouched from what Henry could discern (though I doubted the veracity to that). The bobbies searched high and low for my sister and niece, but they were not to be found.

Inevitably, the two elderly ladies on the bench were interviewed and they spoke of the young man that was always with them. That was how they discovered Peter was missing as well.

Months passed and no sign of them was ever found. Eventually, the police hypothesized that the three of them had been murdered by some wayward bandit as they left the park that evening. Peter was a wealthy doctor and they probably attempted to rob him, not expecting a fight, which Peter would likely have given. They guessed that the bodies were buried somewhere they would not be found. With a striking lack of evidence to prove or disprove the theory, none could say otherwise, and the story was accepted as the widespread explanation. What would they dare claim as the alternative?

A family photo, clipped so that only Peter, Susan, and Bethie showed, was splayed out in the papers and the "murder" was the talk of the town for all of a week before everyone moved on to the next tragedy. Our parents and Henry were devastated of course. Edmund and I could do nothing to ease their pain. Still…we knew the truth, even if we could never tell anyone else.

After the funeral service, with three empty caskets to bury, Mum and Dad slowly began to move on. Henry remarried two years later to a French woman who was nothing like Susan. They have three sons now, all with full heads of red hair, just like Henry. Dad died a few years later from an old war injury he had never fully recovered from. Mum carried on with a persevering strength, the very same she had passed down to her children.

I missed my brother and sister every day, their absence left a void in my life I could never fill, nor wish to. Sometimes I managed to feel homesick even in my own home and only being near Edmund would help to make the sensations subside. I woke each morning with an aching pang in my heart as remembrance, before going about my day, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that they were happy and that one day we would all be together again.

Edmund knew it too, though he never said as much. Instead, he would just pull me into a brief hug whenever I began to grow melancholy, and he'd say, "None of that, Lu. You know better."

Years later I received a letter in a familiar messy boy's scrawl that was like a balm to my aged but never healed wounds.

"Once a King or Queen… always. Can you forgive us?"

That very same day, Edmund and I were on a train that never reached its destination.

Where darkness reigns, I only saw light, and into the brilliance five figures faded. I always knew we'd find a way.

It was a Tuesday.


End file.
